


Balance

by little-smartass (Linxcat)



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi, Polyamory, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, secret mutant 2015, the fluffiest shit I have ever written in my life I swear, very very vague mention of attempted suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 11:27:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5246600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linxcat/pseuds/little-smartass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poly OT3 in Modern AU. Raven the painter, Irene the model and Azazel the handyman. All of them are very much in love with each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Balance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SapphireQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphireQueen/gifts).



At the beginning of September, Azazel can honestly say he knows very little about art. This ought to be a great failing in someone who works at a gallery, but he finds it impedes him very little in his day to day business. Emma is the one who curates and schmoozes, he is the one who maintains the building, fixes Emma's pretentious sliding glass office door every time it sticks, and does all the general heavy lifting.

It wasn't exactly how he imagined he would be using his 19th Century Russian Literature degree when he graduated, but when you have red skin and a tail, you learn to roll with what life throws at you.

At the beginning of September, Emma gives him a new job role - night guard. Or, more accurately, artist babysitting. "She's a young up-and-coming that the gallery is sponsoring; she'll be using the loft space upstairs after closing to paint the centrepiece for her show that we're exhibiting in December. And I need you to...supervise."

Azazel, who had been extending his arm to pass Emma her morning skinny vanilla frappuccino, immediately snatches it back, "Oh, no. This is joke. Please tell me you are having a joke."

"It'll just be until midnight," She says, brushing off his protests with a cool wave of her hand and then swiping for the coffee with the other. He's about four inches taller than her, even with her terrifying heels, so he easily lifts it out of her reach. Its the sort of behaviour that most employees would get in serious trouble for but he and Emma have been friends for years and so all it earns him is one of her icy glares. "You don't have to hang around the whole time, I just need you to let her in, help her set up, and then come back to lock up and make sure she hasn't had a meth party or something."

He's never heard of Raven Darkholme before, despite Emma's insistence that she's very well known in the mutant art sector; he name drops Darkholme over breakfast with Janos, who considers himself the cultured one, and Angel, who considers herself the well connected one, but neither of them react significantly, so he figures she can't be _that_ famous.

 

* * *

All of this means he is totally unprepared for the person he is set to meet when he hears a car pull up outside the gallery twenty minutes after closing. When he opens the door, what he meets is less a person and more a whirlwind.

A young woman bustles in, all chatter and painting supplies clad in an oversized spattered shirt, and when she steps into the light Azazel can't stop staring and staring because she's blue. _Blue_. As blue as he is red, with scales and cherry hair and flashing gold eyes. He's never been one for poetry, but he'd helped Emma sort through paint swatches last month when she was redecorating the lobby and remembers seeing one the very colour of this woman's skin. It was called _Before the Storm_.

In retrospect, it is apt.

She turns towards him and then stops in her tracks, mouth forming a perfect 'o'. It is a reaction he is well used to; even in this day and age, where the mutant population is at an all-time high, physical mutations as obvious as non-human skin colour are still relatively rare.

What he is not used to is the huge grin that splits her face, the delight that fills her eyes, and the laugh that bubbles out of her as she dances towards him to grasp his forearm, as if to reassure herself that he's real.

"Hello!" she exclaims, "I'm Raven, you must be Azazel - Emma told me about you. But she didn't say what a fantastic mutation you have!" her grin turns sly, "My brother is a geneticist and I swear he'd cream his pants over you."

A little startled and more than a little caught off-guard, Azazel doesn't have time to respond before Raven spins round and calls behind her, "He's red, Irene! Bright red, with a tail, its amazing!"

She is speaking to a woman Azazel had not noticed, too caught up in the excitable bustle of Raven. The woman is pale-skinned, tall and slim, with dark hair, dark glasses and a white stick that swings out in front of her in an arc as she crosses the gallery. Irene smiles indulgently as Raven shifts her bundle of supplies in order to loop their free arms together. Azazel sees their glowing looks, their easy affection, the way their fingers intertwine, and thinks, _Oh_. As he leads them up to the loft space, he carefully and thoroughly smothers the small spark of warmth that had ignited when Raven smiled at him with such delight. He's not an asshole, he can take a hint.

They reach the studio and Azazel flicks on the lights one by one, moving through the room to shift dust sheets and old frames. He hears Raven's exclamations of approval and glances round in time to see her upturn her bag on the hardwood floor and crouch so she is elbow deep in art supplies. A mechanical pencil escapes and rolls to a stop against one of Irene's shoes. She flicks it away with the end of her cane, then huffs amusedly and inclines her head towards Azazel's end of the room.

"No time like the present, I suppose," she says, smiling easily, and he finds himself inexplicably smiling too.

 

* * *

September passes; he sees them three nights that week, and two more the next week, and then three again the week after that. He never sticks around to watch Raven work - most evenings he goes back to his apartment to hang out with Janos and Angel, or, if he's lucky, his two social butterfly flatmates are out and he gets to be in charge of Netflix - but he finds himself beginning to look forward to closing time for the ten minutes he gets to spend with Raven and Irene. Raven's flashing bright eyes and easy affection, and Irene's infectious smiles and sly comments.

Its ten days into October and full-on pumpkin spiced latte season when he brings Emma her morning frappuccino and she says, in the worst nonchalant voice he's ever heard, "So, how are things going with Darkholme and her lovely little model?"

Suspicious of Emma's motives, Azazel perches himself on the edge of her glass desk in such a way that all her files shift two inches to the left - and two inches closer to falling on the floor. Her grip on her styrofoam cup tightens, but she does not react further.

"You have not heard? Next meth party is two weeks. Bring your own."

Emma huffs, pouting, "I was just trying to be friendly. They've been in your surface thoughts so much recently, you're practically yelling their names at me." 

Azazel considers knocking her pristine glass desk-tidy onto the floor with his tail in response, and from the way Emma's eyes narrow he knows she caught the thought. To his surprise, she does not react with anger; instead, she sighs again and reaches out to touch his arm, raising her eyebrows to ask for permission. When he allows it, a shallow telepathic link forms between their minds and through it he senses fleeting glimpses of the thoughts she wants him to know but does not wish to articulate. A jumble of protectiveness mixed with sadness, a stream of _do not fall too hard do not pine for them they already have each other I would not have you hurt._

He feels a slow grin of surprise dawn and he thinks, _Bozhe moi - Emma Frost is becoming soft_. He lets the thought drift across to her and her reaction is to wrench her hand away and scowl at him.

"Don't you have a glass door to unstick or something?" she snaps.

Despite Emma's uncharacteristic gentleness, he leaves her office feeling uneasy. His relationships had always been straightforwardly divided between those who accepted him for his mutation and those who did not, and that had really been that. There had not been a huge amount of romantic involvement in his life, however he had never found anyone who intrigued him greatly enough for him to lament that situation.

Emma is just bored because Moira is away all week, Azazel decides, and firmly resolves to cease thinking about both Raven and Irene.

 

* * *

Its the end of October and Azazel is dealing quite well with denial, all things considered. He is dealing exceptionally well right up until the evening where Raven shows up with a sketchbook tucked under her arm and no Irene in tow.

"A client needed her, it was some kind of emergency," Raven explains, "She's a counsellor, did you know?" She taps her temple, "Her precog means she's great at anticipating the best way to handle people. She's really good."

"Precog?" Azazel queries, the unfamiliar word sounding awkward on his tongue.

"Precognition; it means she can see the future. A little bit, at least. Mostly it's just day to day basic stuff like knocking over mugs but sometimes she gets big important visions - last year she had a vision that one of her clients was going to commit suicide and she actually managed to get to him in time to talk him down."

Azazel is intrigued, but quickly smothers it, remembering his resolution. "You can carry on with painting without her?"

"Oh, this isn't for that painting." Raven grins sheepishly, "These are sketches for something else. I just find I'm better at concentrating when I'm in a studio space with no distractions."

This seems fair enough, so he nods and goes to open the door for her, when she blurts, "Okay this might sound weird - but, your tail..."

He glances back over his shoulder at her. He's had a lot of weird, confusing, and some downright invasive questions about his tail over the years, so he feels confident he can handle whatever she is going to throw at him.

"Is it just muscle, or is it more like another limb, with bones or cartilage? I've been trying to push myself with my morphing recently and I-"

Azazel doesn't hear anything else she says because it is at that point he notices that Raven has a tail - its only about a foot and a half long, blue, and her attempt at replicating his pointed spade has left her with a rather misshapen triangular lump - but it is a _tail_ and he has never, never met another mutant with a tail before.

It is clear that Raven interprets his shocked silence as negative by how quickly shrinks the tail away, "I'm sorry, it was really presumptuous to ask and Irene was right, it probably is appropriative to just 'try on' your mutation like that, but-"

"Your mutation...it does this?"

Raven nods slowly, "Shapeshifter," She explains, holding up one hand. He watches as deep red cascades down her fingers to her wrist, the scales fluttering and peeling back to reveal skin the same crimson as his own.

He's honestly speechless. He hopes it isn't to obvious. He feels like it probably is.

"Do you have any other mutations?" She asks, her skin shifting a scale at a time back to its natural blue.

He has to admit, showing off to other mutants is something he thoroughly enjoys. He holds up a finger, as if to say, _just watch me_ , and then he teleports away, jumping through the fiery brimstone abyss to reappear on the other side of the gallery door. He waits until she turns, waves and taps the glass to reassure her that it is not a trick, and then bamfs back to stand beside her.

It is Raven's turn to be speechless, though she wears it prettier than he did, he suspects.

"Amazing," she breathes, and then grins hopefully, "Are you able to take passengers?"

That's how they wind up on the roof of the apartment block on the other side of the city with a perfect view out over the harbour. "I've daydreamed about what it would be like up here so many times," Raven admits, her face glowing as she gazes out, post-teleportation queasiness almost immediately forgotten. And then she turns, focuses that warm glow on him, and its like the sun breaking through the clouds, "Thank you for bringing me here."

He pushes the warmth away, remembering the sight of Raven and Irene's fingers twisted together and the dozens of small expressions of love he's seen in the weeks that he's known them. But he still smiles back, because he is happy that she is happy. He has nowhere to be that evening, so he sits next to her as she scribbles the night down in oil pastels, enjoying the silent company; he discovers that whilst she is a veritable chatterbox most of the time, creating art brings out in her an astounding single-minded focus that renders her completely insensible to sound or the passage of time.

So he is a little startled when, after about forty five minutes of silence, she asks, "What's the furthest distance you've ever teleported?"

He considers it for a few moments, "When I was eleven, I wanted very terribly to go to America. Land of the free, you know? Anything must be better than Moscow orphanage. I look at map, I think, this is not so far. So I try."

"Did you make it?" Raven asks, eyes wide.

Azazel snorts, "I wake up two days later in cathedral in Minsk. The people of the city think I am dead demon boy but the holy water does not hurt me so instead I get many blessings." He shrugs, "Next time...I took plane."

Raven bursts out laughing and he finds himself joining in; it feels good to share the story as an amusing anecdote and to be able to laugh with her over it, instead of receiving pity or sadness.

"It took me until I was in my twenties to be comfortable going out in public in my natural skin," She admits, and then, as if she were able to read his mind, "It's good to find someone who gets it and doesn't just feel sorry for you."

She squeezes his hand and, for a brief moment, in the gloom of the evening, they are almost the same colour. He drops her back at her car and spends the rest of the night trying not to dwell on how painfully obvious it has become that he's in deep here. Way too deep.

 

* * *

The next day, as they watch _Mad Max: Fury Road_ for the third time that week, Azazel asks Angel, "What would you do if you were...having a crush on someone who is in relationship with other person?"

Without taking her eyes off the screen and without hesitation Angel answers, "Kill them."

Azazel suddenly remembers why he never asks Angel for relationship advice.

 

* * *

Its early November and Azazel is dealing with his feelings the best way he knows how. Which is to say, he is not dealing with them at all. He is, at least, keeping them entirely under wraps and is fairly certain that neither Raven nor Irene are any the wiser, though the same cannot be said for Emma, who throws him patronisingly pitying looks every day at around four thirty as she gets into her white convertible.

He ignores her, and when Raven and Irene arrive at five thirty, he lets them in. Everything is going smoothly, and he's actually looking forward to going home to the tub of ice cream he's hidden at the back of the freezer, when Irene asks him his plans for the evening. He's halfway up the stairs with Raven's large easel in his arms - Emma had banned him from teleporting around the gallery space because the sulphur smell tended to linger - so he waits until he's set it safely down in the loft before responding.

"A book and leftover chow mein and an early night, I am thinking," he replies, "Emma is wanting me to clear out the storeroom tomorrow so I will need a lot of sleep."

He steps aside so Irene can get past him, but instead of making her way straight over to the chair where Raven usually has her modelling, she pauses at his side. "Any book in particular?"

" _The Brothers Karamazov_." He grins self-consciously, "Cliché, I know; I studied it in college, and yet, still it is one of my favourites."

Intrigue is writ clearly all over Irene's features, obvious even behind her dark glasses, and behind her Azazel catches Raven smiling knowingly as she begins to mix her paints. "Is it good? It's been on my list for years but I've had real trouble finding it in Braille, and I'm reluctant to get it on audiobook as I've heard some of the translations can be...difficult."

"Irene," Raven says gently, reaching out to guide her elbow, "Could you sit, please?"

Azazel makes a decision that he suspects will make his life much harder in terms of the not-dealing-with-feelings stuff, but knows he will not regret. "If you like...I can read it for you, whilst Raven is painting? I can explain 'difficult' translation bits. If you like."

The look of absolute delight on Irene's face answers him better than words ever could.

He bamfs back home to pick up the book, then pulls up a chair just outside Raven's complex arrangement of carefully situated lights to read. Irene is an incredibly attentive audience but they hardly get through a chapter that evening because she keeps peppering him with questions, endlessly curious about linguistic semantics and 19th century Russian culture. Azazel doesn't mind in the slightest, pleased to be able to pass on knowledge, and their only interruptions are Raven's beratements when Irene becomes a little too excited.

As the night draws to a close and Raven starts to pack up, Azazel goes over to try and get a peek at her canvas. As he leans over her shoulder, she shrugs somewhat self-consciously, "This is just a study for the final thing." she wrinkles her nose and sighs, "I just can't get the pose right."

"Does it look like me?" Irene asks, stretching languidly, "Or has she made me hideous as punishment for moving all the time?"

Azazel studies the painting; it is obviously an unfinished work, but it is stunning in the way that a sketch can often capture more of life than a deeply detailed drawing. The background is mostly blank save for a wash of deep purple and few basic strokes to indicate ideas of what could be put in later. Irene is in the foreground, an elegant figure lounging in her chair in a white dress - though the dress itself has very little detail, Raven has painstakingly replicated the hues of Irene's skin, the curve of her outstretched leg, the twist of her wrist down to her long fingers draped in her lap, the dark waves of her hair over her shoulder. All the lines of the painting draw his eyes to Irene's face, which, though captured in sparing brushstrokes, is unmistakably familiar with its aquiline nose and misty eyes, framed by dark eyelashes. Despite her protests about Irene moving, Raven has managed to capture something incredibly animated in her expression, which is the most distinctively _Irene_ part of the whole painting.

“It is perfect,” Azazel says, “It looks just like you.”

Raven beams, Irene laughs, and almost perfectly in sync they both stand to their feet, Raven dancing over to twirl Irene in her arms, “There,” she says, pulling Irene in close, “Are you satisfied? As if I would make you hideous and miss out on painting your lovely face.”

Looking at the two of them together, nose to nose and giggling, Azazel thinks, _Chyort voz'mi, I am in trouble_.

 

* * *

When he gets home he finds Janos in the kitchen with the tub of Ben and Jerry's that he apparently had not hidden as well as he'd hoped, methodically and painstakingly digging all the cookie dough chunks out from the rest of the ice cream. He's too swamped by everything to bother glaring at his flatmate for the theft but slumps down in one of the chairs opposite him.

"What would you do if you were having feelings for two people at same time?"

Janos frowns, "Romantic feelings?"

" _Da_."

Janos sucks on the spoon for a few moments thoughtfully, then removes it to speak, "Have some sort of identity crisis, probably." At Azazel's irritated huff, he shrugs, " _Lo siento_ , bro, but it is not the best question to ask someone Aro-Ace, is it?"

 

* * *

Azazel continues reading to Irene whenever she and Raven come to the gallery for the rest of November, and with Irene helping with pronunciation and Azazel providing the cultural context, they make a respectable dent in _The Brothers Karamazov_. Raven manages to find a composition that she's satisfied with and works with more dedication and focus than ever before – but also with more _secrecy_ than ever before. She used to allow him a look over everything she'd done that evening before she packed up, but ever since she started on what she declared to be 'the real thing', she had begun sweeping the canvas away and locking it in the old loft toilet before he could even get near. He doesn't bother disputing her on it or reminding her that he too has the keys to the room; he has come to learn over the last few months that Raven is five foot seven of scales and stubbornness when she wants to be and, well, it is _her_ painting.

“You'll have to wait and see it with everyone else at the exhibition,” she tells him with a smirk and some kind of secrecy in her eyes that he can't quite puzzle out.

 

* * *

December rolls round and Azazel has yet to find a real solution to his problem, but he assures himself that it is better to wait until after the show, so that Raven won't have to deal with upheaval due to awkwardness so close to her deadline. He'll do the right thing and let everything blow over, before disappearing from their lives entirely. It would be easy, and probably much less painful for all involved than actually attempting to discuss what he's feeling with them.

 

* * *

Its ten days into advent and Azazel has begun to, under Emma and Raven's precise instruction, clear out and set up the main exhibition space for the show. The work is slow and arduous as before any of Raven's work can even be brought in each piece of the last exhibition has to be carefully taken down, catalogued, and stored in the right section of the back room. The artist cannot even come and collect his paintings and sculptures until way into the new year, which means each individual piece has to also be perfectly packaged so that it will not be damaged in its month of storage.

He's taking a well-earned break from taking down the old exhibition to try and fix Emma's office door, and is legitimately considering just giving in and smashing it so that she'll have to buy a new one that works, when he sees her triumphantly finish a call and spin in her chair towards him.

“Coffee's on me!” she calls, tossing him a ten dollar bill.

“Coffee is always on you, you are rich.” Azazel points out, but takes the money regardless, “What is occasion?”

“Ororo Munroe has heard about Darkholme's exhibition and is interested in coming to the opening night.” At Azazel's blank look, she explains, “Munroe is really big in the mutant art world. If word gets out that she's coming to the exhibition-” Emma grins slyly, “And it _will_ – then it'll be free global promotion for the gallery. Also, Munroe has a habit of patronising young mutant artists, so if she likes what she sees then Darkholme will be able to get her own personal studio instead of having to work in our old loft – and you don't have to babysit any more. Win-win."

“Win-win.” Azazel echoes dully. Its perfect, really, and he won't even have to worry about discussing things with them. In two weeks they'll be out of his life forever and he can go on as before, like nothing happened.

Emma must catch something of his misery in his surface thoughts, because her expression softens minutely, “Its for the best,” she says, standing and reaching out to squeeze his shoulder, “And she'll be happy. They'll both be happy. And you can move on."

 

* * *

He spends the rest of the day packing up the exhibition, and is relieved when Emma lets him know that Raven and Irene have had to cancel that evening. Janos and Angel are both out, so he heads over to Erik's, a place where he knows he will, at the very least, get some sympathy.

Azazel plays ten minutes of teleporting versus superspeed tag with Pietro, allows him to win, and then lets Wanda attempt to braid his hair whilst Lorna uses him as a climbing frame, and by the time all three kids are bored Erik has finished packing their bags for their week back with Magda. Because Azazel is a truly excellent best friend and worth his actual weight in gold, he even offers to drop the kids at her house on the condition that there's an ice cold drink and a space on the sofa for him when he gets back.

“You look like you want to talk about something,” Erik says, eyeing him suspiciously as they prop their long legs up on the coffee table and pop the lids off their beers.

Erik's known him for years, so Azazel isn't surprised that the man can read him like a book. He considers whether to discuss this all with him; Erik's past lovelife was a total trainwreck, but he'd been in a relationship with Charles for nearly a year now and it seems pretty serious, so Azazel figures he is probably the closest thing he had to a source of decent advice.

“I...possibly have...feelings. For two different people. At same time.”

Erik swigs contemplatively from his bottle, “Well, that sounds fun.”

“Is worse,” Azazel groans, “The two people are in relationship with each other.”

Erik lowers the beer and stares at him for a few seconds, then sets the bottle down on the coffee table and stands, “I'll go get the good spirits,” he says gravely.

Erik doesn't really have any advice for him, but his sympathy is almost as good and his alcohol helps a little.

 

* * *

Azazel spends the next day setting up the exhibition with an impressive hangover. Emma gives in around lunchtime and eases it for him telepathically, but not before sending the words _YOU OWE ME BIG TIME_ ricochetting loudly round his skull a few times. As he unwraps Raven's work, he takes a few moments to consider each piece and compare it to what he'd seen of her practise paintings. He is unsurprised to discover she has a tendency to work in bright, vibrant colours, and the paint is thick and highly textured in a way that gives him a strong urge to run his fingers over it. He wonders whether she paints that way to enable Irene to enjoy her work too, and the thought fills him with such sudden affection that Emma, across the room and negotiating with two large canvases, actually looks over her shoulder and rolls her eyes at him.

Raven finally finishes the painting three days before the show which is a great relief to everyone, not least Azazel, who had spent the entire week caught between Emma's stress ranting and Raven's frantic determination which had almost dissolved into panic attacks on several occasions. There had been one evening where her breathing had been loud and fast enough that Irene had paused Azazel in his reading and walked over to Raven, headless of her protests, and held her blue face in her pale hands, forehead to forehead, until she calmed down.

“I told you yesterday, I had a vision of the exhibition night. Everything will go perfectly,” Irene had kissed Raven gently, then smiled and stroked her thumbs across her scaled cheeks, “Its all going to work out, don't you worry.”

Raven had laughed at that, “You're just saying that,” she'd mumbled, but when Irene frowned sternly, she'd nodded in a suitably chastised way, “But you're probably right.”

Azazel had said nothing, and wished there was more he could have done. All he could do was try and keep Emma sane and off Raven's back, and so he'd done that.

And then one glorious night Raven throws down her paintbrush and claps her hands and runs over to swing Irene out of her seat and spin her around and Azazel knows, it is over. Whatever this strange, wonderful thing he's been privy to is, it is over now.

He gets a kiss on the cheek from both of them, though, when they are caught up in the delight and excitement of their celebrations, and that almost makes it all worth it.

 

* * *

The exhibition opening night is on the 21st of December, though everyone is thoroughly swept up in holiday fever well before then. He drops Janos and Angel off at the airport; Janos always travels back to Spain to be with his sisters over Christmas, and the death of Angel's grandmother a few months beforehand had been enough to shake up her family into getting over Angel's choice of profession and reaching out the hand of reconciliation. Well, less 'reconciliation', more 'we promise not to make nasty comments if you'll come back and stay with us for a few days', but Angel had missed contact with her family more than she'd ever be willing to admit, so she'd agreed to go.

As they stand together by the airport dropoff area, Angel wraps him tight in a suffocating hug, fluttering a foot off the ground so she can put her arms around his neck. “Are you going to be alright on your own?” she whispers. When she feels him nod, she pulls back and gives him her best intimidating face, “If you open your presents early, I will know.” she tells him. He grins. He doesn't doubt it.

“Don't pine too much, man,” Janos warns him, squeezing him almost as hard as Angel had, “Make sure you have some fun too.”

 

* * *

The day of the exhibition finally arrives and Azazel spends most of it trailing Emma, who strides around the gallery in her stilettos like a diamond-encrusted Valkyrie, barking orders at anyone and everyone who makes the mistake of being in the building that day. All of Raven's work and Emma's organisation pays off, however, as the finally fully assembled gallery space is stunning, even without its centrepiece, which Raven is still jealously guarding and will be revealed as the climax of the evening.

Raven stops in briefly to double check everything is in order, and Azazel can tell that the reality of it all has yet to hit her by the way she walks around dazedly and nods in a vague kind of way every time Emma tries to ask her opinion. When Emma gives up, he approaches Raven and nudges her companionably.

“How are you feeling?”

Raven shrugs, “Nervous. Excited. Mostly nervous.”

“Why are you being nervous? All you have to do is walk about and be charming,” he gestures at the paintings around them, “Difficult part is already done, _da_?”

She laughs like the sound has been startled out of her, “That's a good way of looking at it,” she admits. Then her expression turns thoughtful, “Thank you for everything you've done these last few months...Look, when this is all over I-”

“Raven, a word with you? We need to talk about your speech.” Emma cuts in from across the room. Raven gives him an apologetic wince and walks away.

Azazel loves Emma like a sister, he really does. But he has never had a stronger urge to kill her.

 

* * *

He doesn't have a chance to catch Raven again before everything starts. He goes home to change and comes back to the gallery to find it buzzing with the first arrivals; Raven is surrounded by a crowd of reporters and wellwishers and he is pleased to see she that she is in her element as her cheerful talkative self. At the back he sees Irene – she is wearing a light blue dress with long fitted sleeves which flatters her slim form greatly - and he makes his way over. There must be something distinctive about the sound of his walk because she immediately turns towards him as as he approaches and smiles warmly.

“Good evening. From what I can hear, things seem to be going well.”

“It seems so,” Azazel agrees.

Irene loops their arms together and turns her head towards him with a hopeful smile, “Would you take me round and describe it for me, before it gets too busy?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

At that moment, a young waitress balancing a tray full of champagne flutes catches her foot on Irene's cane and stumbles. Without hesitation, Irene shoots out an arm to steady the woman and catches the glasses with her other hand, righting them and barely spilling a drop. She waves off the waitress' thanks but does snag two of the champagne flutes, passing one to Azazel, who is still gaping several seconds later.

“You did not see vision of the night being perfect,” Azazel realises, “You are using visions to change future and make sure the night is perfect."

Irene's jaw clenches and her whole body stiffens away from him; clearly she is used to being criticised for how she chooses to use her mutation, “You would do the same for her, if you could. You know you would.”

“I did not say it was bad idea.” he points out, placatingly. Irene visibly relaxes, and slips her hand through the crook of his elbow again.

“It isn't as simple as changing the future, anyway. Its more like...picking which path to go down.”

The matter settled, Azazel guides her around the gallery space, their heads bent close together so that Irene can hear him over the hubbub of the crowd. Initially he finds it difficult to pick out words that can articulate the contents of each canvas, especially in a language that is not his mother tongue, but as they work their way around he begins to slip into an easy pattern. It helps that Irene is familiar with many of the pieces either from Raven's accounts or from having explored the tactile surface of the paint, though she seems content to listen to him interpret them.

About ten minutes in, they encounter a young man in a wheelchair who Azazel instantly recognises as Erik's Charles – and who turns out to be also Raven's Charles. Her big brother, to be specific, and as Charles chatters excitedly to them about how proud he is of his sister, Azazel can't help but remember Raven's opening comment about him all those months ago in September.

It isn't until Charles glances up at him and looks distinctly amused that Azazel remembers Charles is a telepath. He's rather relieved when Charles assures him that he finds it hilarious.

The evening passes very pleasantly, on the whole, though it is nearly two hours before Raven manages to break free from her admirers to find them. She's stunning in a high-necked sleeveless white dress, the inverse of Irene's pale skin and blue dress, and the combination of the two of them side by side leaves Azazel rather more distracted than he'd like. Cheeks flushed violet under her scales, Raven draws them both aside.

“Ororo Munroe wants to offer me my own studio!” she hisses, “Ororo Munroe! Me! Studio!”

“That's wonderful,” Irene says cautiously, “Why are you panicking about this?”

“Because I'm convinced I'm going to wake up and find that its all a dream.” Raven mumbles, rubbing her hands down her face.

“It sounds to me like you are needing more champagne.” Azazel says, grinning and stealing three fresh flutes from a passing waiter's tray. He presses one carefully into Irene's hands and gives the other to Raven, who sticks her tongue out at him but takes it anyway.

“To Raven and her talent and her glorious success of a show,” Irene proposes, lifting her flute, “And to Azazel, for being an angel and saving me from dying of boredom whilst I modelled.”

“And to Irene,” Raven cuts in quickly, “For pretending that my 'glorious success' has nothing to do with her love and care.”

The three of them clink glasses. Azazel tries to bottle the moment up in his mind; memorising the cheerful chatter of the room, the glorious paintings surrounding them, and - drowning everything else out - the brightness of Raven's eyes and the warmth of Irene's smile.

“And now,” Raven groans, twirling her empty crystal flute by its stem between her fingers, “I have to go up and make a speech in front of all these people!”

Irene smiles and reaches out to still her blue hands, “You’ll be fine. Just be yourself and everyone will love you.”

" _Ni pukha, ni pyera_." Azazel offers, and when Raven gives him a look of confusion, grins crookedly and adds, "It is meaning something like your phrase... _break a leg_. Good luck."

"Luck?” Raven’s listless motions cease and a rather worrying glimmer of mischief flashes in her gold eyes, “Yes, I do think I’m going to need lots of luck…Irene, give me one of your famous good luck kisses, would you?”

“Famous?” Irene queries a little indignantly, but obliges. The kiss is short and tender, Irene’s pale fluttering hands coming to rest on Raven’s scaled blue cheeks, a gesture born of years of close intimacy. Azazel looks away, feeling like an intruder.

He turns back to see Raven swooning theatrically, “Irene, my darling, the luck bestowed by your lips is a balm to my nerves, but alas, not quite sufficient!” She takes Azazel’s arm and grins coyly up at him, “Mister Azazel, help a poor girl out?”

Panic flares within him. It is an emotion he is totally unused to, as the particulars of his mutation have forced him to learn very quickly how to have both a thick skin and fast reflexes. He glances over to Irene, but she seems untroubled, smiling in a bizarrely expectant manner. He wants to kiss Raven, heaven and earth know he does, he’s wanted to kiss her since the moment she swanned into the gallery in an oversized paint shirt, but…

And then the unthinkable happens; the brightness drains from Raven’s face, sadness entering her eyes to be swiftly covered over by a fierce kind of indifference. He sees she is pulling herself together to step away and brush it off, and he has messed this up very badly. He cannot bear to see her sad, on this day of all days, so he takes her shoulders and draws her in, trying to pour everything he’s wanted to say for the last four months into one kiss. Her lips are soft and pliant, and the feeling of them curving up against his own washes away the fear and guilt instantly in a rush of delight. Briefly, her hands come to rest on his, he feels her squeeze his fingers, and then she pulls back. There’s a shy look on her face that has replaced the bravado from before as she studies him for a few thoughtful moments, and when she gives him a gentle smile Azazel knows they understand each other completely.

Its exhilarating and terrifying.

“Don't let him get away before I get back, okay?” Raven says sternly to Irene, who gives her a mock salute.

His stunned silence must be telling, because Irene squeezes his arm sympathetically, “She has that effect on everyone.”

There's something almost smug in the curve of her quiet grin, something very knowing, and it takes Azazel a second to realise why, “You saw that - in vision?”

Irene says nothing, but the smugness turns to an amused kind of affection, which is answer enough. He's wondering how exactly to question her about it when Emma sends out a low-grade psychic wave to catch everyone's attention and quiet the room. Raven is standing in the centre of the crowd with her covered final painting beside her. All eyes turn towards her.

“Good evening. I'd like to start off by thanking everyone for coming tonight; your support is unbelievable and really means the world to me.” Raven pauses, then grins sheepishly, “Emma wants me to make a big speech about art or my inspiration or...something. But I think most of my work really speaks for itself, and to be honest, I couldn't really think of anything I wanted to say other than the biggest possible thank you to everyone who has given their time and effort to help me get here, where I am today.” She reaches up to grasp the sheet covering the painting, “And, without further ado, I give you what at least three of you have been waiting for all evening, though I can't speak for the rest –" she pauses as laughter ripples around the crowd, "- this exhibition's centrepiece.”

The painting is stunning, just as Azazel expects it to be; Irene is rendered in loving detail, a graceful figure draped across the canvas in her white dress, dark glasses pushed up onto the top of her head to tangle in her hair, though it breaks the bounds of traditional portraiture by having her expression so incredibly animated. Irene's entire face is aglow with excitement, her mouth open and hands raised to gesticulate in a way that makes it clear she is mid-conversation.

His gaze crosses over the painting and his heart nearly stops. There is a second figure. It is shadowed over, its back is to the viewer, and there are very few personal details visible, but he knows exactly who it is meant to be.

“What do you think of it?” Irene asks quietly.

“It is...it is brilliant. Of course.” Azazel manages. His head is still spinning from the kiss, from Irene's implications, so he has no idea how to digest...this. Whatever _this_ is, whatever this means. His heart is hammering but his brain has drawn an overwhelmed blank.

Raven pushes through the edges of the crowd to reach them and pauses at Irene's side, eyes anxiously scanning Azazel's face. Some part of his mind that is still functioning distantly realises that she is concerned about his reaction and that he ought to reassure her.

“Is amazing. Is your best piece by far.”

Raven nods, a level of relief dawning in her eyes, but still there is a kind of nervousness that lingers. She slips one hand through the crook of Irene's elbow and the other through Azazel's and leads them both out to the relative quiet of the lobby. The clacks of Raven's heels and the tap of Irene's cane echo on the marble floor.

After a few seconds of standing together in tense silence, Raven blurts, “When I was drawing Irene I just couldn't get the composition right. But then one day when I was frustrated I drew you in and...and you balanced everything out. Do you see?”

“We like you,” Irene interjects, “Both of us. We really, really like you, and we think that maybe you like us too, and we were wondering whether you'd like to try this out. Being in relationship with us.”

Azazel looks between them; Raven, with her blue scales and bright golden eyes and anxious expression, teeth gnawing on her bottom lip; Irene with her pale skin and dark hair and calm smile that hides her true emotions, evident in the clenching of her jaw and the way her hand is tightly fisted around her cane.

“You have not seen this in vision?” He asks Irene.

“I have,” She admits, “But after Raven unveiled her painting there were so many different potential timelines that it wasn't actually particularly helpful.”

He glances at Raven, then back at Irene, “So...you are having no idea what I am going to do?”

The two of them shake their heads in unison.

He kisses Irene first, because she's closest. She lets out a small high-pitched noise of surprise and then laughs against his mouth. He pulls back after a few seconds and is about to turn to Raven when she jumps on him, slinging her arms around his neck and kissing him enthusiastically. And then Raven kisses Irene, giddy with excitement, and they stand together in each others' arms, giggling and flushed.

“We should probably go back to the show,” Irene whispers, “In two minutes Emma Frost is going to mentally nudge you, Azazel, to ask you to bring Raven back.”

They return to the main gallery space. He and Irene sit at the back by the snacks table, talking quietly, whilst Raven makes her rounds and charms everyone, and he thinks that he doesn't see her stop smiling for the entire of the rest of the evening. As the guests begin to leave, Emma approaches them, and Azazel is initially concerned that she's going to remind him of his post-exhibition clearing up duties, but something – be it the dazed happiness of his surface thoughts, the holiday season, the champagne, or the fact that Moira got the night off work and so spent it curled around Emma's arm – puts her in a charitable mood.

“Don't worry about staying tonight. I'll just pay someone an extortionate amount of money to do your job tomorrow morning.”

He presses his free hand that isn't holding Irene's to his heart, “You are best boss ever.”

Raven stays until almost everyone is gone, deep in discussion with Ororo Munroe. When they finally finish, Raven stumbles over to them, dazed in delight and mumbling about studio spaces and three figure paychecks. They find their coats and step out of the gallery together to discover that snow has begun to fall.

“How beautifully cliché,” Irene observes, turning her face upwards and wrinkling her nose as snowflakes hit her cheeks.

“Perfect end to a perfect night, just like you predicted.” Raven responds cheerfully, swinging their clasped hands back and forth, “Come on, lets go for a walk. Just down to the harbour and back.”

Azazel loses the conversation for a while as she and Irene begin to discuss Raven's next project and a gallery they'd visited a few weeks back. They seem to be of differing ideas as to the social merit of the work, but he'd missed the artist's name and at any rate, he doubts he would be able to offer an informed opinion. He doesn't mind though; he lets his thoughts drift off as he enjoys the crisp night air, his hands warm in theirs, Raven swinging her arm enthusiastically and Irene interlacing their fingers together.

He's caught out when they both turn to him and Raven says, “You agree with me though, right Az?”

In the middle of December, Azazel can honestly say he still knows very little about art. It ought to be a great failing in someone who works in a gallery, but he finds it impedes him little in his day to day business.

“Honestly,” he admits, biting his lip against a laugh at their expectant expressions, “I have no idea what it is you are talking about here.”

Raven shoots him a scandalised look, "Az, _really_? And you, working at a gallery!"

Irene grins broadly and pats him on the arm, "Nevermind. Spend long enough around us and you'll pick it up quickly."

Perhaps it did suggest a kind of failing on his part, to be surrounded by so many people who were so enthusiastic about art and know so little. However, he reflects with a fond smile, as he walks out into the snowy night, hand in hand with Raven and Irene, he is _learning_.


End file.
